


Times Like These

by jemdetta



Category: Foo Fighters
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 07:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemdetta/pseuds/jemdetta
Summary: Six months after a flu virus wipes out most of the population, Dave tries his best to survive and make his way to California, where there is reportedly a community of survivors like him.However, he doesn’t expect to find another survivor along the way and is faced with a hard choice. Should Dave leave this man be and focus on his own survival, or save this stranger’s life and take him along to California?





	Times Like These

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sailorhathor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailorhathor/gifts).



> Dear Sailorhathor, this was the Foopocalypse fic I wanted to write you for Yuletide! The prompt seized my brain and wouldn’t leave me alone for months. So sorry that I couldn’t finish it in time for the Yuletide deadline, but I figured better late than never! Thank you for such an amazing prompt and for being a wonderful recipient! I'll be posting chapter by chapter as I finish writing and editing.
> 
> As per your prompt, I’ve changed the names of all the Foos’ loved ones. Just a warning that this is also full of fluff as well as all the hurt and comfort, and the romance is a slow burn. You’ll also come across all the Foos eventually (some will have a bigger starring role).
> 
> Also wishing a happy belated birthday to Mr Grohl!

_‘Made up my mind to make a new start,  
Going to California with an aching in my heart.’ - Led Zeppelin_

 

The house looked empty from the outside, but Dave had been fooled before. Hesitating beside his Ford Falcon van, he made up his mind and reached in for his trusty 12-gauge, which was resting on the passenger seat. Out of habit, he checked whether it was loaded and cocked: yes and yes. He did this every damn time he picked it up. Some might call him a paranoid asshole, but he hadn’t survived this long just out of sheer dumb luck.

The door was ajar, the area around the broken lock bearing scuff marks, splintered wood and other clear signs that someone had jimmied it open with a crowbar. Typical of the deserted and abandoned houses Dave found these days, but he spotted something unusual this time. 

There was a bloodied baseball bat lying on the floor. 

Dave silently elbowed the door open, keeping his gun up and his finger ready on the trigger. He sniffed the air cautiously, but the expected stink of decay and rot was surprisingly absent. No dead bodies here, then. Dave was starting to think that whoever had tried to defend themselves with the baseball bat had been successful after all.

“Hello?” he called out, eyes trained on the doorway that led to the living room. His voice felt rusty with disuse.

There was no answer - which was kind of expected - but some deep instinct made Dave press on anyway. He peeked into the kitchen, gun held at the ready. Nobody was there, but Dave’s mouth watered when he spotted the miraculously full shelves, bulging with boxes of poptarts and fruit roll-ups. Bingo.

After cramming as much food as he could into his trusty backpack, Dave decided to scope out the rest of the house. He’d long gotten over the guilt of helping himself to other people’s belongings, right around the time when most of the population had started dropping like flies. The panicked survivors hadn’t taken long to start the looting, which meant Dave had been forced to temporarily shelf his grief and hit survival mode. Soon, he gradually saw it less as robbing dead people and more like scavenging to stay alive. 

He moved silently up the stairs, hoping against hope that the owners of this house had more stuff he could use, including a decent CD collection. The baby-boomers who’d previously owned the Ford Falcon van must have been raging fans of ABBA and Tom Jones, because those were the only CDs that Dave could find in the glove compartment. While Dave was grateful for music - any music - there was only so much of ‘What’s New Pussycat’ that he could take without wanting to smash his head against the dashboard.

There were two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. Dave raided the bathroom for any possible supplies: shampoo, soap, razors, leftover meds, a box of Iron Man band-aids. He was contemplating a bottle of aftershave when he heard a low groan from one of the bedrooms.

Out of pure reflex, Dave swung his gun to aim at the door. There was no one there. His heart was pounding in his ears, his grip clammy. Carefully stepping out of the bathroom, he nudged one of the bedroom doors open with the barrel of his 12-gauge. It was a woman’s empty bedroom, so he moved on to the next one. 

That room was obviously a kid’s bedroom, with bright blue walls and various toys scattered on the floor, which Dave stepped around. A mini drum set took up a corner of the room, its sticks abandoned on the seat. Against the wall, there was a bed shaped like a race-car. Dave raised his gun again when he saw there was somebody curled on top of the bed, somebody who was too tall to be a kid.

Dave couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman, since their face was covered with long, matted blond hair. However, he didn’t miss the telltale purple bruises on their arms and legs, which meant this person was already in the last stages of the Hong Kong flu. The bed was _surrounded_ by empty liquor bottles. Fuck, were they trying to finish the job by drinking themselves to death?

“Hey, you still alive?” Dave called out. There was little he could do to help, but he couldn’t bring himself to just walk away from someone who was clearly suffering. He tried not to think about the two priceless doses of Saniflu that he’d hidden away in his little U-Haul trailer. People had been murdered for less.

There was another groan again as the person stirred, but they were clearly too weak and unresponsive to speak. Biting his lip, Dave made a decision. If he couldn’t cure them, he could at least make them comfortable in their last hours. 

Heading to the bathroom, he grabbed some wet wipes from a basket on top of the toilet tank. Holstering his gun, Dave went back into the bedroom and knelt down by the bed, making sure he was facing the door in case this was a trap and anyone tried to creep up on him.

Turning the person over to lay flat on their back, Dave brushed the matted blond hair aside, revealing a dark brown beard and a delicate masculine face, the man’s brow creased in pain. He was so thin and bony that Dave wondered just how long this guy had been on his own, slowly starving and dying of the flu. “C’mon buddy,” Dave muttered, gently cleaning the guy’s face with the wet wipes. The guy was clutching something, and as Dave started wiping down his arms, the guy’s grip loosened to reveal that he’d been holding onto a black and yellow Tonka truck. It had the name ‘Brian’ childishly scrawled underneath in black Sharpie.

Dave swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. _Everyone_ had lost someone in the recent pandemic, and Dave had his own crosses to bear. In the eleven months since the Hong Kong flu had made it to the States, Dave had wondered time and again whether his natural genetic immunity to the H3N4 strain had been a curse instead of the blessing like the doctors at the CDC had the audacity to tell him. Since then, the few other survivors he’d come across had borne the same haunted, hardened look that Dave himself saw in the mirror most days. No one who’d survived the flu thought themselves lucky.

Another groan snapped Dave out of his thoughts as he blinked, remembering where he was. The blond guy was now shivering, his cracked lips almost blue. Dave thought long and hard about the Saniflu doses stashed in his trailer. A year ago, he’d sold his house to buy them off the black market, but he’d been too late to save his family. In his grief he’d almost tossed the Saniflu in the garbage, but practicality had stilled his hand. Maybe he could help others, even if he’d been too late to save Jenna and Olivia.

 _Then what are you waiting for?_ a voice that sounded awfully like Jenna’s chided him in his head. _Help him, honey. You know you can’t just leave him._

“Fuck,” Dave cursed under his breath, thinking hard. Technically he could always just give this guy the Saniflu jab and leave him to heal on his own, but then he remembered the bloodied baseball bat downstairs. What if more assailants came back? Dave had spotted at least one gang of looters roaming around the Richmond suburbs, picking houses and garages clean. This poor guy definitely wasn’t safe.

“Sorry bud, you’re coming with me,” Dave said, before adding, “At least for a little while.” Making sure his gun and bag were strapped on properly, Dave slid his arms under the unconscious blond man and picked up his limp body, stunned at how little the guy weighed.

 _This is fucking suicide,_ Dave thought as he carefully maneuvered the both of them down the stairs. Even if the Saniflu worked and this guy survived, it would soon mean all sorts of trouble that Dave hadn’t bargained for. Another person to watch out for, another mouth to feed. Dave had been going it alone for the past six months and it was hard enough trying to stay alive. 

But...Jenna was right. Dave simply couldn’t leave him for the wolves. No baseball bat in the world would be of any use against a good old-fashioned gun.

Dumping him gently on the makeshift bed in the back of the van, Dave looked around to make sure the coast was clear before hurrying to the UHaul where he’d hidden the Saniflu. His months of training as a CDC volunteer came back to him easily enough, and he loaded the syringe before searching for a vein on the guy. Applying the dose, Dave let out a sigh and disposed of the syringe, placing an Iron Man band-aid on the wound and leaving a wet towel on the guy’s forehead as he slammed the doors closed.

“What the hell am I doing?” Dave muttered to himself as he climbed into the driver’s seat, starting the engine and glancing at his new passenger in the rear-view mirror. Well, it was too late for regrets. Dave pulled out of the driveway, hoping that the Walmart he’d spotted off the interstate hadn’t already been stripped bare.

***

They were crossing the Virginia state line into Kentucky when Dave heard sounds of rustling from the back. The guy was moaning again, but from what Dave could see in the rearview mirror, the purple cow-patch bruises on his arms had definitely faded. Miracles weren’t in short order after all.

“You okay there, man?” Dave said as gently as possible around a mouthful of poptart.

“Water,” the guy rasped out, so Dave handed over the bottle of Gatorade he’d been saving for this exact moment. It was gone in ten seconds flat, and Dave tried not to wince when the overeager chugging turned to brief choking. At least the guy looked marginally more alive now.

“Where’re we?” he eventually mumbled, staring out of the windows in a haze.

“We just left Virginia,” Dave said, slowing down so that he could navigate the van around an upcoming slew of abandoned cars. Maybe they might even stop, so that Dave could at least stretch his legs and siphon some gas. 

“Who’re you?” the man slurred hoarsely, his eyes already halfway closed.

“I’m Dave.” He decided to pull over after all, checking his side mirrors in case anyone was lurking about. “What's your name?”

There was no answer, so Dave glanced at the rearview mirror again. The blond guy had his head back and his eyes shut, seemingly passed out, so Dave was surprised when the man muttered, “Taylor.”

“Great to meet you, man,” Dave said, but Taylor had already lapsed back into unconsciousness.

***

Once the sun set, Dave decided that it was time to stop for the night. Most of the highways were now cast in darkness, and even after all these months, he still hadn’t gotten used to driving with just the headlights on. There was an abandoned motel that looked promising, so Dave parked the van in a hidden spot and got out to check on his patient. Taylor was still asleep, but at least his face had more color now. The bruises were halfway gone.

After making sure the motel really _was_ deserted, Dave decided on a twin room with the sturdiest lock. Then he carried Taylor in bridal-style and draped him across one of the beds. There was some slight shifting and snuffling, but otherwise Taylor remained soundly asleep, the Saniflu working its magic.

Dave didn’t have much of an appetite for dinner, so he merely raided a vending machine in the lobby for granola bars and Cheetos. The bars were just past their expiry date, but still tasted good so Dave didn’t care. After he grabbed more Gatorade for Taylor, Dave made his way back to the room and placed it by Taylor’s bedside, along with his camping light.

Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the motel room mirror, Dave ran a hand through the bedraggled mess that was his hair. This was what Taylor would see, once he woke up for good. And it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Dave wore his hair long now, way past his armpits and almost as long as when he’d grown it out in his teens. Sometimes he wore it in a ponytail, especially if he was gearing up for some real physical work. Cutting his hair or trimming his beard seemed pointless: any consideration for his looks or appearance had been shoved aside in favor of good old survival. It had been a while since he’d given the mirror anything more than a cursory glance, but he hazarded that he probably resembled some kind of mountain man now, thanks to his grizzled beard and the wild new do.

Yeah, Taylor would probably be wary. Not that Dave gave a shit anyway. 

***

The next morning, Dave didn’t see a need to linger at the motel - which had no electricity or running water - so he packed everything up and bundled Taylor into the van. They were almost outside Lexington when Dave heard Taylor groaning again in the backseat, much louder this time. 

In the rearview mirror, Dave spotted Taylor finally sitting upright, his hair a fuzzy blond mess. “The fuck?”

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Dave said cheerfully, pleased that Taylor looked so much better now. “You okay?”

Taylor’s stomach rumbled so loudly that Dave could hear it even over the van’s engine. “You got anything to eat?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They pulled over outside a gas station, which clearly looked like it had already been broken into and looted, so Dave didn’t bother looking for food. Since it was a special occasion, Dave thought Taylor might appreciate some hot food, so he brought out his camping stove and a can of soup. 

“Shit.” Taylor was clearly impressed, looking over Dave’s UHaul. “You seem to have everything.”

“Just the necessities.” Dave poured the soup out into two mess tins, wishing there was coffee for breakfast as well. “Look, you probably don’t remember me, but--”

“You’re Dave.” Taylor was looking straight at him, clear-eyed and earnest. The fog of the flu’s earlier stranglehold was entirely gone. “You-- you saved my life, man.”

Dave had always been bad at reacting to praise or compliments, so he cleared his throat and stared down at the mess tins instead, stirring the soup so that it didn’t clump. “Just a little longer, then we can eat,” he said, avoiding Taylor’s gaze.

“Thanks,” Taylor said quietly, and Dave had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the soup.

“I know you’re starving, but take your time, okay?” Dave warned him as he turned off the stove. “Eat real slow if you can.”

They ate it out of the mess tins with saltines and some Gatorade on the side, but Dave raised his eyebrows as Taylor practically _inhaled_ the soup. At the speed with which Taylor was wolfing down the food, Dave was hardly surprised when Taylor suddenly dropped the mess tin with a clatter, running off to throw up in some nearby bushes. 

“Hey man, I told you to take it easy,” Dave said not unkindly. He handed the retching Taylor a roll of kitchen towels. “Must've been a while since you had a real meal. I've got more soup, if you want it.”

A rueful Taylor shook his head no at first, but ended up accepting a poptart that Dave handed to him. They ate in silence for a while, at least until Taylor said, “My kid loved these. Used to steal one off him every time I visited.” His expression grew dark, his bites slowing as he stared off into space. Dave knew where Taylor had mentally retreated to. Hell, Dave went there half the time himself.

Dave decided not to tell Taylor where he'd gotten the poptarts from. He figured it was the least he could do.

***

The first thing Dave learned about Taylor - now that he was fully conscious - was that the guy _could not fucking keep still._ Either Taylor’s leg would be jiggling, or he’d be shifting around in the front seat to get comfortable, or he’d be drumming out some weird rhythm on the dashboard. Normally someone so fidgety would have annoyed the hell out of Dave, but he’d been alone for so long that he was more amused than anything else. 

“So where we going?” Taylor asked, thumping his bony knee rhythmically. “I mean, not that I’m not grateful or anything, but--”

“Yeah, I meant to tell you,” Dave said apologetically. “I’m heading to the west coast to try and find a friend, who may have survived. I didn’t wanna stay in Virginia, the other survivors I met there are some crazy assholes who’d stab you just for a candy bar.” Dave glanced over at Taylor. “What about you? I could take you back, if you wanted.”

Taylor shook his head slowly. “Nah. Nothing left for me there.” His eyes took on that distant look again, and Dave’s heart lurched in sympathy. They drove on in silence for a while, at least until Dave turned on the CD player. He almost laughed at the expression on Taylor’s face as Tom Jones started blaring out from the van’s speakers.

“Jesus Christ,” Taylor groaned, slumping back further in his seat. Now he looked like a little kid, almost disappearing into Dave's Metallica t-shirt which was a size too big for him. “You’d think there’d be a better soundtrack for the end of the fuckin’ world, huh? Like ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ or some shit like that.”

“I know, I know.” Dave was grinning. “Let me know if you see a record store, or a radio station. We’ll get some Beatles or Queen or something.”

Dave didn’t miss the way Taylor’s entire face lit up. “Hell yeah, now you’re talking.”

They passed a sign indicating that the Nashville border was a hundred miles ahead. Taylor looked over at Dave. “So, you’re heading to the west coast, huh?”

“That’s the plan.”

Taylor looked thoughtful. “Y’know, I’d actually like to head to Laguna Beach. See if my folks somehow made it.”

Dave seriously doubted that, but of course he didn’t voice it. “Yeah sure, I could take you there. Plus, it’ll be real helpful to have a second pair of hands and eyes.” It was probably a bad idea to place so much trust in someone he’d just met, but somehow Dave felt an instant rapport with Taylor, as though they’d known each other for years. “I’m collecting stuff like food supplies, solar panels, shit like that. It’ll be useful in California, at least.”

Taylor nodded thoughtfully. “I mean, if this really is the end of the world, then at least I’d want to be home, y’know?”

Dave did know. “It’ll be easier to find food at the coast too. There’s probably no shortage of fish.”

Taylor tucked his legs against the window, making Dave envy his flexibility. “Are you from Cali too?”

Dave shook his head. “Originally? Grew up in Virginia, but I kinda stayed all over the place. Spent half my life in Seattle and LA, so I’m going to try and find my friend Pat there. He emailed me before the internet went down, he said there’s supposedly a bunch of survivors who formed their own community.”

“Okay,” Taylor said, holding out his hand.

“Okay, what?” Dave glanced down quizzically at his outstretched hand.

“I’ll be your first mate,” Taylor said, as Dave laughed. “Hey I ain’t kidding, man! I’ll help you with stuff, keep a lookout and shit until we get to California.”

Navigating the van around a pile-up of abandoned cars, Dave finally grabbed Taylor’s hand in a firm handshake. “Don’t make me regret this, bud.”

“You won’t,” Taylor said with such conviction that Dave couldn’t help smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:please note that since this is a post-apocalypse fic, there will be several mentions of death, sickness, loss, grieving and some violence.


End file.
